And Then I Booked It
by WingedQuill1
Summary: Lily Evans was just trying to write her sodding Transfiguration paper in peace, and it's not her fault if James Potter decided to start being noble nearby. A tale of five times Lily ran away from him, and the time she didn't. T for language, F for fluff, J for Jily. I own nada.
1. Chapter 1

**I have expanded this one. 'Twill be six chapters, 'twill be silly, 'twill hopefully be enjoyable.**

 **Plot Summary:**

 **"And bloody hell, now that I've told you all that, I suppose you're going to get some stupid idea into your head that I fancy James Potter." Six chapters about the most important, stressful, and physically taxing twelve hours of Lily Evans' young life, although if she'd stop bloody running away, perhaps she wouldn't be quite so tired. In fact, perhaps she will stop running...but only to conserve energy, of course.**

 **October 3rd, 1977,** **9:15 AM (just after breakfast)**

 **Gryffindor Common Room, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland**

Certain snotty, messy-haired, arrogant toerags named Potter might have suggested to you that I could only have seen the incident I'm about to relate if I had been intentionally spying on him. But as you'll soon see, I couldn't help it; he was simply in the way of where I was trying to look.

"But, Lily," I hear you whinging, "your homework was right in front of you, and James Potter was all the way across the room! How could you possibly have _needed_ to look over at him?"

But honestly, can't you mind your own business for once? I'm trying to tell a story here.

* * *

Potter and Black were lounging around the common room like the good-for-nothing, lazy layabouts they were, taking up perfectly good couch-space that anyone could have been using to study. Not that anyone actually wanted to be sitting there at that particular moment, per se, but it's the principle of the thing.

In fact, the common room was empty except for the three of us, and given Potter's recent inclination to spew tacky pickup lines whenever he saw me, I had put up a quick charm when they walked in the door, so as far as the two boys were concerned, they were alone. Not that James has actually spewed many of those since we became Co-Head students, or any at all, to be precise, but, well. I mean it was early morning, and since I hadn't had class yet, I was still in my

I mean I hadn't had class yet, so I was still in my pyjamas, and hadn't even touched my disaster of a hairdo. I wasn't really ready to be in the company of any witch or wizard with eyes, let alone with _very_ hazel ones and extremely defined Quidditch muscles and a recently developed sense of maturity and a shockingly quick wit and bloody _excellent_ hair.

Or the pick-up line thing. Yeah, let's go with the pick-up line thing.

And never mind about that maturity, anyway, because they're seventeen-year-old blokes with nuts where their brains ought to go, and they were avidly debating how many girls Dumbledore had shagged.

"Two, I reckon. McGonagall, 'course, and, er, some buxom country bumpkin from back home."

"Merlin's pants, Padfoot, two? Give the bloke some credit! Didn't you see the way Pince was ogling him when he popped in the other day? She even let him eat his sodding candy in the library, what was it, that revolting fruity rubbish…?"

"Lemon drops! Alright then, there you go. No man who spends mornings wandering into libraries to enjoy a lemon drop is spending his evenings humping naked women up against walls."

"Walls, no. Bookshelves, maybe." Potter grinned crookedly, and my stomach flipped over. Breakfast probably wasn't agreeing with me.

"Bookshelves, Prongs?" Black waggled his eyebrows. "Screw broom cupboards, _that's_ what you should have suggested to Evans."

Potter rolled onto his stomach and flung something gold at his mate – that Snitch of his, I realized an instant later – and growled, "Where I shag my future wife is of no consequence to you or your filthy ilk, Padfoot."

 _Future wife?_

" _My ilk?_ " Black gave Potter a dark look, and Potter groaned theatrically.

"You know, mate, you can't just spend the rest of your life using the 'my family are filthy prats' line for everything," he sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Really?" Black grinned, "Because it hasn't led me wrong yet."

Right then, Gawain Robards and John Dawlish practically fell out of their dormitory, emitting an awful sort of giggling noise that no self-respecting Gryffindor would be caught dead making, let alone two 7th years on the almighty Quidditch team.

Black gave the two a casual, irritatingly elegant nod, Potter a grin and a wave. The two morons stumbled over to Potter and Black and bent down next to them to whisper quietly.

Unluckily for me, they hadn't quite mastered the art. Of course, it didn't help that I seemed to have accidentally scooted my couch back, putting myself three feet closer to their conversation.

"Guess what we figgered out?" John drawled stupidly. P'n'B exchanged baffled looks, but before they could reply, Gaw, sniggering even harder now, answered for them.

"Marijuanos Potion."

Let me explain.

You know how Ravenclaw's always looking for that lost Diadem? And Slytherin believes in some rot about a Chamber of Secrets? And Hufflepuff…well, I don't think Hufflepuff has lost anything in particular, actually…maybe personality. Well, the Gryffindor equivalent is the recipe for the Marijuanos potion. Supposedly, ol' Godric discovered a potion that could make you feel better than firewhiskey, send all your stresses floating out the window, and multiply how good everything tasted and smelled and felt by ten. And if Johnny and Gaw had really worked it out, well, that would pretty much explain the way they were behaving, actually.

Potter and Black leapt to their feet, their excitement uncontainable.

"You offering to share?" "Holy hopping gargoyles, tell me you've got some left!" The yelling is particularly distracting because, bafflingly enough, the couch seems to have moved a few feet closer yet again.

The older boys grinned even wider. "Why do you think we came down? You two are cool, and we've got plenty. Come on up." Gaw gestured to the door to their dormitory, still hanging half-open.

There was a moment of silence, as Potter and Black simply looked at each other, gazes filled with awe. James looked like a man who'd just been informed that his birthday and Christmas had both come early and also he'd singlehandedly defeated Voldemort and Filch was fired. Black...well, I seem to have forgotten Black's precise expression, although I definitely spent equal amounts of time looking at each of them. Same sort of expression as Potter, I imagine.

But as Black cackled like a madman and started for the dormitory, James tore himself away, moving toward the portrait hole instead. "Mate, Remus and Peter won't wanna miss this. I'll go get 'em from the library, you go on up."

John stopped giggling. "Remus and Peter? You talking about Lupin and Pettigrew?"

"Yeah…?" James seemed confused, as if he didn't quite recognize Dawlish's tone – ironic, since it was the exact same one he used to use every time I mentioned Sev.

"Yeah." Robards was the only one still laughing, but it didn't sound so friendly anymore. "Dumbledore's pet and the wormy little wanker? Yeah, right. Come on, mate, let's go." He slapped James's back and jerked his head toward the dormitory stairs.

I swear the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

"What exactly are you saying?" James' voice dropped too, and suddenly the situation felt dangerous.

Dawlish didn't seem to notice that, though. "I'm sayin' come upstairs, man. Let's go."

James and Sirius didn't move. They didn't speak. Dawlish and Robards had both stopped laughing by now. If I were writing stage directions in a play, there would be quite a few beats.

These four boys play Quidditch together. Granted, I have always considered this an absolutely pigheaded activity, but the fact remains that there are only seven people on the team, and the four in front of me have all been on it together for three years (though Potter made it long before that). The Marauders are best mates, always have been, always will be, I imagine, but these four blokes bleed scarlet and gold.

Add to that the fact that Potter and Black are bullying berks most of the time who have as far as I know never really given a rat's ass about anyone but themselves, (never mind if Potter has gotten a _little_ more mature the past two years), and that Marijuanos is such a legend that I myself felt a twinge of jealousy, and I was frankly baffled why they hadn't already shoved off upstairs to try it. And I was even more baffled when James ran his bloody hand through his bloody hair, which he only does when he's nervous, and tapped the fingers of his other hand against his thigh back and forth, back and forth, which he only does when he's _really_ nervous.

And I was downright shocked when he looked Dawlish in the eye and growled: "No! We don't want your filthy potion if you won't let Remus and Peter have any."

Dawlish gave James a scathing glare and turned, with his eyebrows raised, to Sirius, who looked like a deer caught in headlights.

Sirius looked at James. He gazed longingly at the stairwell. And then he squared his shoulders and glared at Dawlish and Robards. "No. Peter and Remus are my best mates, so...so..." he trailed off, and James threw an arm around Sirius' shoulder and snarled:

"So take your filthy happy juice and sod off!"

Alright, you're not gonna believe me about this next part. But I swear to Merlin, the couch I was sitting on dragged _itself_ straight across the room, with no help from me whatsoever, and slammed _itself_ into James Potter.

Oh, _no._

I am one of about three people in the whole school who doesn't sleep through History of Magic, so I can tell you with complete certainty: never in Wizarding history has anyone's face been as red as James Potter's when my invisibility charm crumbled and he found himself staring straight into my eyes.

With the possible exception of mine.

My head whipped from James, to Sirius, to Robards, to Dawlish, back to James, and then I lifted it high in the air and announced primly, "Well, as a Prefect, I can assure you all that you, Dawlish and Robards, are about to sod your stoned arses off to detention." I turned to James and Sirius. "And Potter, Black? Ten points to Gryffindor."

And I booked it. My speech done, I turned on my heel, knocked the Fat Lady aside with my shoulder and collapsed into the hallway.

 **Angry SwF pitchfork-bearers, I love you, I have not abandoned you, expect an update by next Tuesday (please hold me to that:). HP readers, please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Much love to TrueHomiePip, I hope you like it as much in redux!**

 **October 3rd, 1977, 9:37 AM**

 **A Sixth Floor Corridor, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland**

 _And I booked it. My speech_ _done, I turned on my heel, knocked the Fat Lady aside with my shoulder and collapsed into the hallway._

Almost before I was on my feet outside the common room, though, I heard footsteps coming after me. And I didn't have to turn my head to know it was James.

He sprinted down the hallway behind me, and, of course, Athlete McQuidditch-Boy caught up quickly, swinging in front of me and blocking off my path.

While standing very, very, uncomfortably close to me.

I skidded to a halt (getting even closer, guh) and looked up at him. When my eyes collided with his, it almost felt more violent than when I'd smashed into him moments before. He was staring down at me, eyes burning with _something_ I didn't quite understand, but it seemed to tear away my power of speech.

I blushed. Panted. Tried to come up with something clever or sweet or flirty or just in _English_ to say. Failed.

But of course, because he's _James Potter_ and he's never been tongue-tied in his life, he smiled at me, waving at the three and a half corridors we'd sprinted down before he caught me. "Bloody hell, Evans, for a conscientious objector to sport of any kind, you sure can run."

"I...I quite like table tennis." Well, one could call it English.

 _"_ What?"

"I'm not a conscientious objector to sport of any kind. I quite like table tennis!"

"...Table tennis?"

"Yes! It's a Muggle-"

"Evans." He looked sincerely alarmed. "I don't care if it's the single greatest concept ever invented by a Muggle, and you'd give up all claim to your spot at Hogwarts and let You-Know-Who take over the World and chop off all your hair just for a chance to play one more round - well," he amended, "I might care a bit about the hair - it's not _sport_ if it's on a _table."_

 _"_ Right, yeah," I retorted hotly, "'Cause it doesn't count unless every time the whistle blows there's a good chance you'll break your neck in the next minute?"

"Is that concern for my safety I hear? Why, Evans, you softie, I knew you had feelings for me deep down!"

"If you're about to ask me out, Potter, just because I probably won't dance on your grave-"

"Merlin, Evans, I'm done with that, alright? Bash a bloke over the head enough times with your blatant disgust, and even I can take the hint. I followed you for a reason." His hands went to his hair. "Was just going to say that - I just -" he grabbed a tuft of it and yanked - "I'm sorry. About how I acted around that git of a friend of yours, Sniv - I mean, Sev - Severus. I'm sorry I was a prat to Severus, and I'm sorry if it's part my fault he said - _that -_ and I'm sorry I haven't said before that I'm sorry. Because I am. Even if he's a - I mean - I'm sorry."

I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry or laugh or hug him. But with every second that he stood in front of me, lips a little parted, hair perfectly mussed, eyes earnest and imploring, the last option grew more and more alluring. And this was _James Potter_ , so that was frankly unacceptable. Luckily for me, my mouth can always be counted on to ruin a moment. "You know, Potter, you might not be such an absolutely rotten git as I thought." Unluckily for me, I think my eyes said, 'actually, it seems you're turning into sort of a fantastic bloke'.

And he got the memo, because his smile lit up his whole face, so bright I wanted to turn my head away. "Progress!"

I felt strangled, frozen, totally immobilized by the power of this grin which it didn't seem possible I had ever seen before. "Yeah," I got out, "incremental, anyway."

"Well, incremental progress defeated the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, didn't it?"

That smile should be illegal. HE should be illegal. Locked up. He should be locked up and forced into eternal darkness by one of those creepy Hand things, and I'm still not sure the smile wouldn't light up the whole world anyway. "Er, did it?"

And then he started talking, saying something perfect and funny and silly and _James_ about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, but I couldn't focus on his words because he was still smiling The Smile That Enflames Lily Evans' Loins and so I didn't spit back a quick response at any of the appropriate moments in the story and just sort of sat there staring and so eventually he finished and trailed off and the Smile To End All Smiles sort of drifted away from his face.

"Right, well..." He nodded, shrugged awkwardly, about to leave, which sounded about right since my capacity for witty banter seemed to have shriveled up and died somewhere in between his apology and the appearance of The Smile That Epics Will Most Likely Be Written About.

But I couldn't let him turn away and leave, I just couldn't. Not because I have feelings for him or any of that rot, not because he looked so utterly spectacular smiling a minute before and I just wanted to bring it back, but because - well - because we're friends now, sort of, since 7th year started, and getting along makes Heads' duties so much easier, and I didn't want to ruin our getting along by letting him walk away from me while I simply stood there like an absolute imbecile.

So I jerked my head up and tapped him on the shoulder as he turned away and exclaimed, "By the by, if you're still wondering? Dumbledore's magic number?"

"What? Wha...What?!" Widened in shock, his eyes really are very, _very_ hazel. Not that I noticed. And his surprised face is almost, _almost_ cuter than his absolutely spectacular gleeful face.

I grinned, thoroughly enjoying his astonishment. "Do you want to know how many birds Dumbledore's bagged with his, ah, stone, or not?"

The poor bloke simply couldn't get his head around it. "You - what - how could ...How many?!"

"Four." Impossibly emboldened, something strangely like fire coursing through my veins, I lifted my hand to his arm to steady myself as I got up on tiptoe, pressing my lips to his ear and whispering: "Blokes."

It seemed, as I was doing it, like a profoundly clever and amusing thing to do. But that was before I had really considered the phonetics of the word "blokes". Go ahead, try it. I defy you to whisper the letter "o" without contorting your lips into a decidedly, well, _snoglike_ formation.

And so the fact was that, however innocent (and it was extremely innocent!) the intention, here I was, in the middle of a deserted corridor, holding James Potter's arm (very muscular, not that I noticed, but I mean really, to be perfectly frank, it's not quite fair of you to expect a girl not to notice, it's just the Quidditch, of course, but it has been so very, _very good_ to him), on tiptoe (because he's that sort of perfect height, right, where he's too tall for me, but only just, because I can reach if I do go on tiptoe, not that any of that's at all relevant) with my lips pressed into his ear (and my nose right around the same area, so I simply can't help but smell him and he smells like boy, but _more, better_ somehow) in a _decidedly snoglike formation._

And James Potter, who could always, always be counted on for quick repartee, did not seem in the mood right now to speak at all, let alone to ask sensible questions like "Why Evans, how did you find that out?"

Unfortunate indeed, because then I would've been obliged to respond with the name of my informant, and I promise you that would have effectively Avada-Kedavra'ed the moment and allowed me to settle back on my own two feet and let go of his (warm, muscular, shapely) ( _shapely?_ Who is he, Elizabeth Bennet? Pull yourself together, Evans!) arm.

But you see, the idea of the sweet release afforded by announcing said informant's name, now that it had invaded my brain, had settled in like a ghoul in the attic. And in the midst of the panicked fog of _James_ multiplying exponentially inside my head, the fact that the name was intended as a _response_ to a _question_ that HAD NOT BEEN ASKED seemed to recede until, with no conscious effort, and very little actual awareness of my actions, I blurted out -

"HORACE SLUGHORN!"

What's the next step for a panicked sixteen-year-old witch who just bellowed the name of her pretentious, obese potions master into the ear of a very attractive wizard, you ask?

Well, for the second time that day, I ran like hell.

 **Review, per favore, my lovelies! Some of Lily's upcoming flights are not very fleshed in my mind, so feel free to weigh in :)**


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